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HE DAKOTA PLAYMAKERS 1920 



Written by Students oi the University of North Dakota 

as Class Work in the Course in 

DRAMATIC COMPOSITION 



EdKed by 
FRANZ RICKABY 

Aaaistant Professor of English 
University of North Dakota 



No. 


7 


SACRIFICE 

A Tragedy in One Act 
by 
Ruth L. Baughman 
Second Arneberg Prize Play, 


1920 


Series 


E 



Published 
by 

THE DAKOTA PLAYMAKERS 

of the 
University of North Dakota 



The University of North Dakota 



fb' 



U> ^^ 






^ 



The Pla3m<iker Plays are copyrighted, 1920, by The Dakota 
Playmakers, of the University of North Dakota. 

There is for the present no royalty fee attached to the produc- 
tion of these Plays. The Playmakers ask, however, that in the case 
of every production suitable public recognition be given the Uni- 
versity and the writer of the play. 



Copies of the Plays may be obtained, at the rate of fifty 
cents each, from the Dakota Pla) makers, University, North Dakota. 



OCT -5 1920 



T^PS2-008625 

©CID 5S832 



A 



THE PLAYMAKER PLAYS 

A GENERAL FOREWORD 

As indicated on the cover of this pamphlet, the Playmakci 
Plays represent the collaboration of the Dakota Playmakers, the 
dramatic organization at the University of North Dakota, and the 
University course in Dramatic Composition, offered first by Pro- 
fessor Frederick H. Koch in 1915, and for the past two years by 
the editor of this series. 

These plays make no pretentions to surpassing excellence in the 
various elements of dramatic writing. They are merely little ex- 
periments done as laboratory work in a course which has as its chief 
purpose, not the immediate fashioning of playwrights, so much as the 
steady recruiting of the ranks of those who can appreciate drama from 
each of the several angles of appreciation. 

The purpose behind publication in this case is the supplying of 
high-schoo! societies and other amateur groups in the territory which 
this University serves, with these examples of native drama. This 
purpose had its birth in frequent queries, from outsiders who had 
seen or heard of the University productions, or from graduated 
Playmakers who had taken part in them, as to whether or not the 
plays were available for general use. They were not. Quite com- 
monly there was no extant copy of the play in question. It will be 
impossible to include in this series any of the plays written previous 
to 1918-19, among them some excellent ones, because the manu- 
scripts are not now available. 

It is a source of warm satisfaction to the editor that literally 
scores of citizens of this state will feel a deep and living interest in 
these plays, for having either written them or acted in them, or for 
bearing some peculiar relationship to those who did. These are 
truly "our little plays" ; we conceived them, and we have acted them. 
They are not masterpieces, but they are clean, and they have enter- 
tained our neighbors and friends. Some of them picture North 
Dakota men and women in the business of living; all of them repre- 
sent the North Dakota student in the business of adapting and 
building. 

To the cause of Native American Drama the Playmakers dedi- 
cate their plays, and bespeak for them the attention and interest of 
all who like to hear a story and take sides in a conflict, and who at 
the same time believe in beginnings. Encouragement alone will 
beget more and better plays. For those who would be too harshly 
critical we might quote a line from one of our earlier plays, the 
words of an old Scandinavian mother to her newly returned super- 
cilious and over-educated son: "Vel, Alf, dis is all ve got!" 

F. R. 



STAGE PLOT 

, gggT 




T?.»WT 



CHARACTERS: Mrs. Bentley. 

Robert Bentley, her son. 
Anne Bentley, her daughter. 
George Hollister, Anne's fiance. 

SCENE: The combination dining- and hving-room of the Bent- 
ley cottage, in some middle-sized eastern city. 

TIME: Late afternoon in Spring. 



Sacrifice was presented by the Playmakers in the Metropolitan 
Theatre, in Grand Forks, on the evening of June 2, 1920, with the 
following cast of characters: 

Mrs. Bentley Klonda Lynn 

Robert Bentley Howard A. De Long 

Anne Bentley Ruth L. Baughman 

George Hollister Eli Weston 



SACRIFICE 

The curtain rises on the empty stage. There is seen the Bentley 
living room {also used for a dining room) which is furnished rather 
poorly but cosily with old-fashioned furniture; a dining table cov- 
ered with a dark table cover of some sort and with a bouquet of 
spring flowers adorning it; some braided rag rugs; a set of shelves, 
mounted by an eight-day clock; an old-fashioned couch with home- 
made sofa cushions on it; a few straight-backed chairs; a cupboard 
with glass doors containing dishes, glass-ware, etc.; a rocking-chair 
with a low foot stool before it. There is a door at the center back, 
one up-stage left, and another center right. A ivindoiv down-stage 
left. 

Enter soon RoBERT Bentley and George Hollister, talking. 

Robert is a handsome, talented chap of about twenty-two, unde- 
niably artistic, and with abounding personality of a gentle sort. Af- 
fectionate, sometimes impulsive, but controlled by a well-founded 
habit of unselfishness. 

George^ a life-long friend, is a man some years older than Ro- 
bert^ seven or eight perhaps. He is a more solid type than Robert; a 
keen-sighted student of human nature; a lover of music, though not 
trained in the making of it. He is moved by two great passions: 
his love for Anne, to whom he is engaged, and aversion to i?ijustice 
of all sorts. 

Both wear gray business suits. George wears a cap. Robert 
wears a hat and a Windsor tie, and carriers his violin case under his 
arm as they enter. Both boys wear a carnation buttonaire. 

George — {As he sails cap in general direction of a chair; goe§ 
to right of table) The whole concert was great! But your playing 
— Man, if I had your talent! I enjoyed your playing more than that 
of the imported Italian. 

Robert — {Leans violin in corner made by the wall and the upper 
end of the couch. Lays his hat on the couch. Excited, but wishes 
to be modest withal) — Stuff, old man! He's a celebrity. {Feel- 
ingly) But George, you don't know what it meant to me to play at 
that concert this afternoon and at the same time hear Signor Scelleni 
play. If you hadn't asked for the afternoon off for me, I never 
should have gone. It's you I have to thank for all those afternoons 
off, for arranging for my violin lessons as you have, for — 

George — {Interrupting him) Forget it. It's been nothing at 
all. And what's four hours' work at the factory worth, beside your 
playing? — {Warmly) The Andante in that Mendelssohn Concerto 



always gets mc. And today 1 — I — {luilf ashamed ) blubbered like a 
baby.' 

RoBI-RT — {Eaycrly) Tliey all seejiied to like it, didn't tliey ? 

GhORCii — Like it! Why man, they simply went crazy over it. 
And it wasn't only the pampered four hundred either. There were 
some real critics and musicians in that audience. 

RoBHRT — Yes. {Recalling) Jordon of the "Musical World" 
was there, and Shelby, and Mrs. Farrell. They all spoke to me aft- 
erwards, too. 

George — Well, if playing like yours couldn't get under the 
skins of those hard-shell critics, nothing could. You know I used 
to think that a benefit concert was the polite social way of picking 
a man's pocket for some pet charity. But everyone there today 
would have got his two dollars' worth and more if you had been 
the only one on the program, and if you had played only that 
Concerto. 

Robert — {Affectionately) If everyone treated my playing as 
_\()u do, old man, I'd be insufferable in no time. 

George — {Sitting) Well, who knows more about your playing 
than 1 do ? Why 1 remember when you were no higher than that 
{Indicates a short distance from the floor ivjth his hand) how you'd 
stand up and play by the hour — 

Robert — {Breaking in) Yes; 1 remember the first time dad 
brought home a violin for me. It was the smallest one he could get, 
but even then it was too large for me. I couldn't reach to play it. — 
Good old dad ! He loved miisic. He wasn't much of a money- 
maker, but he did know and love his violin. I believe he would 
have been great if he had only had the chance. 

George — I was just thinking as you played today what it would 
have meant to your father to have heard you. 

Robert — I wish he might have. {Sits on the couch) He used 
to spend every spare hour teaching me. He began so early with me 
that 1 do not remember when I did not have a violin. It's as much 
of a part of me as my right hand here. 

George — I know. Bob. {Rises) That's why I want you to 
have your chance. That scholarship would give you a chance. It's 
about time we ought to be hearing about that. 

Robert — I don't dare think of it. 

George — And why not? 

Robert — Too much to hope for. It's open to everyone. It's 
a great opportunitv. They'll all be after it. No possible chance 
for me. 

George — Well, — perhaps not; but — 

Anne — {Enters at the center door. She is about twenty-five 
years of age and has a sweet, patient face and gentle manners. High 
and noble affection is the guiding principle in her life. She wears 



attractive house-dress and appears tying on a small apron. She is 
surprised and delighted. At her entrance both men rise; George 
goes to meet her) — Wh}', what are you two doing here this time of 
day? You're both so wealthy now, I suppose, you've decided to 
retire early. 

George — {Putting his arm around her) — Well, hardly that, 
dear, but I told Mrs. Van Doran how Bob could play, so she asked 
him to appear at her benefit this afternoon. (Anne S7nells the carna- 
tion in George's lapel, and begs for it, without words. He takes it 
off and gives it to her as the dialog continues; she places it at her 
waist.) 

Robert — Yes, and he asked his dad to let me have the afternoon 

off. 

Anne — (Roguishly to George) — I suppose you, bemg the boss s 
son, can take your afternoons off at will. You'll make a nice factory 
owner some day, won't you ? 

George — Believe me, Anne, I have no ambitions in the factory 
line. Dad will have to find some one else to carry on after he's 
through. Me for the tall timbers. 

Robert — Don't tell me you intend to do the "back to Nature" 
stunt ? 

George — It's a fact. If Anne here can stand it, we're going up 
into Canada where I can look after my timber lands. (To Anne) 
It's wonderful there, dear. After you once see the sun rise over 
those mountains, you'll never want to leave. The sunlight turns 
the snow on the peaks all gold and diamonds. It looks like the 
pictures of Heaven you and I used to get at Sunday school. — Jove! 
It's great. 

Anne — (Her eyes shining) Oh, I'd love it there, I know. But 
mother — I wonder — (Stops suddenly, troubled) 

George — (Seriously) It will be good for your mother, I think. 
A change to that environment would do her good. — Don't you think 
so. Bob ? '■ 

Robert — (Without conviction) It might. 

Anne — (Still disturbed) But I doubt if she'd like to move. I 
doubt if she'd be happy there. 

George — (Significatttly, but not unkindly) Well, she isn't espe- 
cially happy here either, is she? (There is a slight pause; Anne 
. seetns confused, almost apologetic, and does not reply. She and Ro- 
bert exchange (fiances.^ Robert speaks rather hastily.) 

Robert — How is mother this afternoon? 

Anne — Oh, she's a little better, I think. 

Robert — Has she been resting — in bed, I mean? 

Anne — Yes; I've kept her there all afternoon, and I've tried to 
keep her quiet by reading to her. 

Robert — Is she as fretful as she has been ? 

—5— 



Anne — Not quite so bad as yesterday. It's only a question of 
being patient with her, Bob, and keeping her as quiet as possible. 
{.■J II this has been between brother and sister ^ though it is not aside. 
George has heard such a conversation many times before. Anne' 
turns to him.) She never tires of having me read to her; it seems 
to soothe her. 

George — {Sympathetically, questioning) You must be tired 
yourself, honey ? 

Anne — {Confessing) A little. {Recovering her cheerfulness) 
I must start supper. You'll stay, won't 3'ou, George? 

George — Can't tonight I'm afraid. I told the boss I'd see him 
at six. I'll be up early this evening, though. {He picks up his cap. 
Goes up to Anne and takes her hands.) 'Bye, Anne. Don't tire 
yourself cooking much tonight. Bob made such a hit this afternoon 
that saw-dust and axel-grease would taste like nectar and ambrosia 
to him. 

Robert — {Steps fonvard and gives George a pull and a shove 
toward the door) Get out of here, you duffer! 

Anne — {Laughing) Indeed, vou needn't try to make me be- 
lieve that men are so aesthetic as all that. Neither you nor Bob 
would ever mistake sawdust and axel-grease for hot waffles and 
maple syrup. 

George — {Mockingly grave) Oh, no. I mentioned merely 
nectar and ambrosia. {General laugh.) 

{Exit George, left. Robert takes up a newspaper and sits in 
chair at right, as though to read. Anne goes to the cupboard and 
starts to remove dishes. Turns and speaks.) 

Anne — {Rather wistfully) I wonder. Bob, if mother wouldn't 
like it up in the Candian woods. 

Robert — {Looking up) I'm afraid not, Anne; you know how 
she hates even the least change in her usual routine. 

Anne — {Sighs) Yes, I know. It always upsets her so. 

Robert — 1 haven't the least doubt she'd be better there, — if we 
could persuade her somehow^ 

Anne — {Quickly) Yes; but we mustn't try to force her into 
going if she doesn't want to. — I hope George doesn't insist too much. 

Robert — George is always tactful. 

Anne — You know that time during the hot weather last sum- 
mer when George was going to take mother and ine to the sea- 
shore, and she had one of those sudden spells and decided not to go? 

RoBER'i — Yes? 

Awi- — (// little aggricvedly) Well, I've thought since, from 
things mother has said, that George must have said something that — 
that hurt her dreadfully. 

—6— 



Robert — {Rising and putting his paper aside) I'm sure George 
wouldn't be thoughtless or harsh intentionally, Anne. He's not 
that sort of a chap, you know, 

Anne — I know. But sometimes I'm afraid George doesn't rea- 
lize mother's condition. 

Robert — Perhaps so. Still — {He breaks off and stands musing 
a moment. .Suddenly turns.) If I've time before supper, I believe 
I'll run down to the postoffice. {Takes up his hat) There may be 
some mail. 

Anne — Don't be long, Bob. You know mother doesn't like 
to wait. 

Exit Robert. Anne moves about the room, setting it to rights, 
going fro?n the table to the cupboard, arranging the flowers in the 
vase, etc. 

Enter, at center back. Mrs. Bentley, a rather well-preserved 
woman about fifty, prettily dressed in a dark dress with lace at the 
cuffs and neck. Her hair, grayed, is nicely done up, with appar- 
ently much attention to detail. But her face is the face of one un- 
consciously the victim of self-pity. She is the toy of hef "nerves." 
She has a voice grown whiney and querulous, and a resigned manner 
of virtuous, sacrificial piety, always bordering on tears. She is not 
without affection for her children, but years of self have made it 
of the ingrown variety. She would be terribly shocked if anyone 
said she loved herself more than her children. — She pauses in the 
door-way. 

Mother — {Querulously) I thought I heard someone talking 
to you down here. 

Anne — {Placing the rocking chair, and the footstool handily 
near) George and Bob were here a few minutes ago. 

Mother — {Sitting in rocking chair, arranging her gown and 
patting her hair into place) — How did they happen to be here at 
this hour? 

Anne — They came from Mrs. Van Doran's Benefit Concert. 
Bob played there this afternoon. 

Mother — That's a great thing for Robert to be doing when he 
should be tending to his work. I suppose it was some more of 
George's doings. 

Anne — George fixed it so Bob could have the afternoon off. 

Mother — {Resentfully) Yes, George encourages Bob in his 
dilatory ways. What is Bob doing now? 

Anne — He said he was going just as far as the Post Office. 
He'll be right back. 

Mother — It seems to me George has got a lot to do gallivanting 
around to benefit concerts all afternoon. — I hope there's going to be 
something I can eat for supper. I'm so hungry. 

—7— 



Anne — (Cheerfully) I'm going to make some waffles. I know 
how fond you are of them. 

Mother — (ffenrily) Waffles again? I'm tired of waffles. 
I don't believe they ever did agree with me anyway. Can't we have 
something else for a change? 

Anne — Why, we can, dear, if you like. What shall it be? 

Mother — I should think you'd be able to plan the meals by 
this time without my assistance. 

Anne — {Patiently) — Yes mother; but if there's anything you 
think you would especially like tonight — 

Mother — I feel as though I'd like some strawberry short cake. 

Anne — But it's awfully early for strawberries, mother. They're 
so horribly expensive this time of year too. 

Mother — It seems too bad that I can't have one special thing 
that I want, when I want it. You know there are very few things 
I care for and when I crave a certain thing I should think you chil- 
dren would be glad I had the appetite and get it for me, even though 
it did cost a few cents. 

Anne — Of course mother, if you want some, I'll order straw- 
berries tomorrow and we'll have short cake for dinner. 

(Anne exit to kitchen through door at right, taking the tabh 
coxier with her. When she returns, she brings a white table cloth, 
which she spreads. The floiuers retnain o?i the table. 

Mother — And get some whipping cream. I never could enjoy 
shortcake without plenty of w^hipped cream on it. 

Anne — (Outside) Yes, mother. 

Mother — And you might broil some chops for a change, and 
cream some asparagus. 

Anne — (Outside) Yes, dear. 

Mother — (After slight pause) Isn't it time for supper now? 

Anne — (Entering, glances at clock) Yes, it's nearly six. 

Mother — (After slight pause) I wonder why Robert can't 
come home to his meals on time. He knows very Avell that I can 
never touch a thing until he gets here, and he knows I should have 
my meals regularly. 

Anne — He'll be home any minute now, I'm sure. 

Mother — He is so thoughtless sometimes. His father was the 
same way. I do think Robert might have hurried back. He knows 
that the least worry makes my heart worse. — I feel right now as 
though I were going to have another spell. 

Anne — Let me bring you a cup of tea, dear. Bob ought to be 
here in a minute. You know he wouldn't cause you a moment's 
worry. 

Mother — No, I won't touch a thing till Robert comes. My 
nerves arc all jumpy too. — You children can never understand what 
I've gone through. You'll never know all I've suffered. Heaven 



knows I'd give my life's blood to keep you from suffering as I have. 

Anne — {Soothingly) Yes, dear. I know you would. Bob and 
I both know. — Do you know what I saw down town today ? 

Mother — But it will be the crowning agony if Robert turns out 
like your father. 1 always said when that stroke of paralysis killed him 
it was just punishment sent by Providence, for his treatment of 
me all his life. All he thought of was that old violin. He spent 
his whole life playing on tha't fiddle when he should have been 
spending his time providing a better living for his family. 

Anne — Yes, mother. {Tries bravely to engage her mother's at- 
tention on another matter.) I was going to tell j'ou about a piece of 
dress goods you admired so the other day. It's still there and — 

Mother — {Continues, apparently without the remotest idea 
that Anne has been talking.) He was the most selfish man I've ever 
known. He neglected me all his life for that violin of his. You'll 
never know how I've slaved and worked. I've sacrificed my whole 
3^oung life for you children, and now Robert is following right in 
the footsteps of his father. 

(Anne despairs, and shows it pathetically. During the following 
speeches she goes between the table and the cupboard, setting the' 
table. The work is interrupted frequently, however, by her stopping 
to reply, or perhaps to go over to her mother's side an instant.) 

Anne — There mother, I am sure Robert will never make you 
unhappy. He will always rememjber how unselfish you have been. 
We'll both do everything we can to repay you for your sacrifices. 
You know we will, mother dearest. 

Mother — Of course, I know you both mean well, but I know 
how ungrateful youth is. It's just nature. — Children can never 
know what a mother goes through. 

Anne — {Patiently) Oh, mother, we know what you've en- 
dured. We're not ungrateful. 

Mother — Well, at least I'll always have the satisfaction of 
knowing that I did my duty. I've always been the most unselfish of 
mothers and I'll get my reward beyond, I suppose, even though I am 
not appreciated here. 

Anne — {Goes to her mother and caresses her) — You are ap- 
preciated here. You are the dearest mother in all the world. 

Mother — Well your father never appreciated me. — I was a 
beautiful girl in my day, Anne; well educated too. I had ambition 
and the highest of ideals. I was fit to have held a high position in 
life. Instead I have lived in poverty and obscurity all my life. I 
thought when I married your father he would amount to something, 
but instead of working up to a better position, he stayed a clerk all 
his life and wasted all his energy and time and thought on his fid- 
dling. Ugh ! That's all he knew or cared about. And now Robert 
is going the same way. 



Anne — But Robert spends only his evenings at his music, and he 
really plays beautifully, don't you think? 

Mother — Oh, the playing sounds well enough I suppose, but 
you never saw a fiddler yet who could make money. Your father 
started out the same way. Why, he could have been the head of 
the Hollister factory instead of a mere clerk in it, if he had only 
let that fiddle alone. Robert can be head of the factory some day, if 
only he doesn't turn out like his father. (Sighs) 

Anne — 1 am sure Robert is going to make good at his work. 

Mother — If only he wasn't so easily influenced by that George 
Hollister. 

Anne — Oh, mother! 

Mother — He even urges Robert to putter with his music, and 
he'd turn Robert against his own mother if he could. 

Anne — (Pleading) Why, George has been just like a son to 
you all his life. Why should he wish to turn Robert against you any 
way ? 

Mother — Never mind. You'll live to see the day when you'll 
realize I spoke the truth. I only hope you'll get your eyes opened 
before you marry him. I never did like him. He's sneaking, un- 
derhanded — 

Anne — (Sharply, very much hurt) Mother! 

Mother — (Virtuously) Of course you will turn on your 
mother and side with him. But I'm not going to see you ruin your 
life without first having done my duty toward you and warned you 
of what to expect. 

Anne — (Reprovingly) Why — I've grown up with George — 

Mother — (Growing hysterical) The most self-sacrificing 
mother a girl ever had, and to think I've slaved all my life for you 
— and then to have you turn on me now! (Sobs) 

Anne — Don't cry, mother. You know that 1 love you more 
than any one in all the world. When George and I are married, you 
are to live with us, and we will all be so happy. 

(Enter Robert at the left, his young face glorified by happiness. 
He brandishes a letter, and his voice is jubilant.) 

Robert — Oh. mother! Sis! I've got the scholarship at the 
Paris Conservatory. Oh, mother! (He falls on his knee beside her 
and embraces her.) 

Mother — (Suspiciously) What scholarship? 

Robert — I didn't tell you about it before because I was afraid 
I might not get it and — 

Mother — What scholarship? 

Robert — (Enthusiastically tvalking back and forth) A two- 
year scholarship — $1,500 a year — at the Paris Conservatory, to 
study under Vignon. Oh, mother, two years of bliss! 

Anse— (Happily) Oh, Rob! 

—10— 



Mother — {Querulously) And during those two years, what is 
to become of me? 

Robert — {Coming suddenly to earth) Why — why — 

Anne — {Also corning suddenly to earth) Why — you will live 
with George and me, of course. 

Mother — You had better warm things up in the kitchen, Anne; 
I'll call you when Robert is ready for supper. 

(Anne goes out at the right. At the door she turns a moment 
and her glance meets Robert's, though neither contains more than 
troubled affection.) 

Mother — Robert, I really can't believe that you are intending 
to go off to Paris while your poor mother and sister — {cries.) Oh, 
Robert, how could you be so selfish ? I have tried so hard to teach 
you both the beauty of unselfishness! 

Robert — Why mother, don't cry. Anne will be married and 
you'll be living with her of course. George will be like another son 
to you. 

Mother — Robert, it's George that's done this whole thing. He 
knows that I disapprove of you wasting your time with that violin, 
and he encourages you. It would do him good to see you a failure 
as your father was. 

Robert — But, mother, I'll not be a failure. I will make good. 

Mother — {Sniffling) To think, that you are going the way 
of your father. That's what he was always saying. — You put all 
this time and effort on that violin, and in the meantime you have 
lost your chance in life. 

Robert — I will have lost my chance if I don't go to Paris. 

Mother — Robert, how can you think of taking up music ser- 
iously? You'll be a pauper all your life — even if you don't care for 
yourself, you might at least think of me. If you remain here, 
you'll probably be manager of the factory inside of two years and 
you'll be able to provide your poor old sick mother with some of 
the comforts she's been denied all her life. 

Robert — But mother, George will give you all the comforts and 
luxuries in the world ; he'll be glad to. 

Mother — I'd rather die than take anything from George Hol- 
lister. I want you to show him he isn't the only man in that 
factory. ' 

Robert — {With feeling, but not ranting) I never could get 
any farther along there than I am now. I hate it! Why, if I 
had to stay in that factory all my life, I'd go mad. It isn't the 
hard work that I mind. {Pathetically) It's the monotonous routine, 
the continual grind — grind — grind, — day in and day out, treading 
the same path day after dav. Oh Lord, to be ground down by ma- 
chinery — those terrible wheels 3'ear after year! 

— 11— 



Mother — Why, the idea Robert! To hear you, one would 
think you really did hate your work. {Sif/lis) Besides, we all have 
to do things we don't like to do, Robert. All my lite 1 have sac- 
rificed my own desires to the wishes of others. No matter what you 
children do, I'll always have the satisfaction of knowing that 1 did 
my duty. (Sobs.) 

Robert — There mother, please. 1 know you have sacrificed for 
us. I'll never forget. But 1 thought you would be just as well 
cared for while I was gone as if 1 were here. You've known George 
since he was a baby and he will look after you splendidly. 

Mother — Robert, I'm sorry that George isn't the fetish with 
me that he is with you and Anne. But 1 know that George is not 
the husband for Anne. She'll never be happy. I know it. I've tried 
to show Anne his selfishness and I really believe she is beginning to 
wake up. I'm hoping she'll never marry him. 

Robert — (Incredulously) Goerge selfish! Why mother, he is 
the finest fellow that ever lived. He's done so much for me. 
(Pauses, continues in a loiuer voice) I never told you this before 
because he's so modest he didn't want it known ; but he fixed it at 
the factory so 1 could have time off every day for my violin lessons. 
That's how I happned to be able to win the scholarship. 

Mother — There, I told you he was selfish. He knows I dis- 
approve of you wasting your time on music, and yet he influences 
you to go right ahead and do it. He's as underhanded as I told 
Anne he was. He's trying to turn you against your own mother, 
besides trying to get you off to Europe so there won't be anyone 
besides himself in line for the position of factory manager. That's 
the kind of a man he is. 

Robert — (/// hurt surprise) Mother, I don't see how you can 
twist things so. He doesn't want any position in the factory. He 
has told Anne and me so. I'm sure I never had a truer friend than 
George Hollister. 

Mother — There, you see you turn against me too. I might have 
known you would. To think that both my children whom I sacri- 
ficed my whole young life for should turn on me now when I'm 
old and sick. (She begins to cry, groiuing more hysterical with every 
word) No one knows how I've suffered and struggled to bring you 
children up and now when I naturally expect a little comfort in my 
declining years, I find myself alone, abandoned by the ones I've given 
my whole life to — (She stops suddenly, with a frightened look. 
Breathes deeply once or twice as though to overcof/ie suffocation, 
presses her hand to her heart.) Oh, my heart! (Sinks back into 
her chair, her eyes clos.il.) 

Robert — (Frightened) Mother! (Springs to her side and tries 
to revive her.) Anne! Anne! Come here! 

—12— 



{Enter Anne, who as she sees her mother, brings a glass of 
water from the table and holds it to her mother's lips.) 

Anne — (As though in pain) Oh! (Tenderly) Poor mother! 
There, dear. 

Mother — (If'eakly, caressing Robert and Anne^ ivho hover 
about her) Oh, Robert — Anne — my children. I've loved you too 
much. — ^There never was a more devoted mother in the world. 

Anne — There, there, dearest, try to be quiet. You are hurting 
yourself. 

Mother — It could be no worse than it is now. First my hus- 
band, and now my children. If only I hadn't had such high ideals, 
it wouldn't have been such a shock. Oh Robert, Robert, how could 
you think of leaving me? 

Robert — (Beside himself with anxiety) Mother, Darling, I'll 
never leave you if you'll only stop crying and get better quickly. 
Please my own dear little mother. (Enter George at right. Sees 
group and starts anxiously forward.) 

George — Why, what's the matter? (J strained pause) 

Robert — Mother isn't feeling so well this evening, George. — 
Come, mother, let me take you to your room. (Robert supports his 
mother slowly out through the door at the back. She seems to be 
crying softly.) 

Anne — (Tremulously) Oh George, it frightens me so when- 
ever she gets a bad spell like that. Her heart is getting weaker I 
believe. She was so upset at the thought of Bob leaving her to go 
to Paris. You knew of course about the schalorship. 

George — Yes, and I surely am glad for Bob. It will be the 
greatest thing in the world for him. (Affectionately) We'll have to 
have the wedding before he leaves, won't we, Anne? 

Anne — Oh, but really I don't believe he'll go. It would kill 
mother I'm afraid. 

George — (J little gruffly) Nonsense, she would soon feel 
better about it, and we could make it just as pleasant for her as if 
Robert were here. (Stepping closer; tenderly) I'll take Bob's place, 
eh, honey? 

Anne — (Timidly) But George, you mustn't be offended if I 
tell you this; but mother — she — she doesn't think you like her — or 
something. 

George — (Dryly) She doesn't, eh? 

Anne — No; I can't think why she gets such queer ideas into 
her head. 

George — Well, never mind, so long as she doesn't get queer 
ideas into your head, Sweetheart. (Takes her impulsively in his arms) 
I think I'll run off with you right now. (Releases her, holds her off 
at arm's length) But honestly, honey, when are you going to set 
the date? 

—13— 



Anne — {Almost as though beseeching) Oh, there's lot's of 
time yet. 

George — You've said that so many times. I've waited and 
waited. — Don't you love me, Anne? 

Anne — You know I do. 

George — Then make it soon, dearest. 

Anne — Let's wait a little — just another year, George. Mother 
seems so upset. She's happier here, and 1 must keep house for 
Bob if he stays home. 

George — {With great care and control) Anne, dear, I won- 
der if you are quite fair to yourself or to Bob. Surely Bob won't 
give up that scholarship. 

Anne — His duty is to mother first, 

George — {Musing) Duty, — what a misused word that is. — 
It is his duty to make use of his God-given talent. Can't you see 
that music is that boy's life? Do you think it's fair to crush the 
soul of a boy like Bob? 

Anne — But mother — 

George — Anne, dearest, won't j'ou marry me now and let me 
take care of your mother? Bob must go to Paris, and you must 
not go on as you have for so many years bearing all the respon- 
sibility of your mother. Let me take that responsibility. 

Anne — George, I can't. It's my responsibility, and I believe it 
is right for Robert to stay. Why, he wouldn't consider his music 
worth it if mother should die. ' 

George — Your mother will not die, Anne. She is a strong 
woman for her age. 

Anne — Why, George! You know her heart has been weak 
for years, and her nerves are in terrible condition. 

George — Anne, the doctor said her trouble was all mental. He 
has never prescribed any medicine for her. 

Anne — But you know she has the most terrible spells. 

George — Simply a state of mental auto-intoxication. It's real- 
ly your fault — yours and Bobs. You foster those spells of hers. If 
you would only be firm with her and not humor her so whenever she 
takes it into her head to become hysterical. 

Anne — {Dangerously calm) Remember George, that you are 
speaking of my mother. 

George — I know it, dearest; but I'm trying to make you see 
that you and Bob are really doing your mother an injustice by sym- 
pathizing with her and encouraging such caprices. 

Anne — How can you talk so? You don't realize mother's con- 
dition. You don't know what she has suffered. You begrudge our 
sympathizing with lier when she's had so much unhappiness in her 
life! 

—14— 



George — (Very gently) If she's been unhappy, dear, it has 
been a great deal her own fault, I'm afraid. 

Anne — {Angrily) The idea! Her unhappiness has all been the 
result of her unselfishness with others. 

George — {Still gently) Don't you think that if your mother 
had been as unselfish as you think she is, she would have been an 
inspiration and help to your father? 

Anne — {Hotly) My father never understood mother. She has 
been a woman of the highest ideals all her life. {Sits doxin in chair 
at the right.) 

George — {Walks off to the left; musingly) Ideals — I wonder 
just what your mother's ideals are. {Turns to her) I love you, 
Anne, more than anything in this world, and for that reason, I 
wish you could see your mother as she really is. 

Anne — {Very coldly) I do. 

George — {Tenderly) No, dear, you don't. {Slightly bolder) 
I'm afraid you have been worshipping seeming virtues instead cf 
real ones. Your mother is — 

Anne — {Stands; in anger) Stop! I've heard you too long al- 
ready. I see mother was right. You are everything that's despicable. 
You — oh — {She bursts out crying.) 

George — {Goitig to her and taking her in his arms) Dearest, 
believe me when I say I'm saying this for your sake — for our sake. 
You've been a poor little misguided slave so long — 

Anne — {Struggles away from hi?n and goes to the left) I once 
thought I loved you. I despise you now. 

George — Anne, can't you see? She has been trying for years 
to keep you from marrying me. She has done it cleverly, insid- 
uously. She can't bear to think that anyone but herself shares your 
heart {Pleadingly) I've waited so \owi, Anne. Surely you are not 
going to let your mother spoil our lives? 

Anne — How hateful men are. You try to turn me against 
the most affectionate, self-sacrificing mother in the world and then 
(scornfully) you say you love me. {She has taken her engagement 
ring from her finger, and as she finishes speaking, she lays it on 
the fable between them. George springs forward and catches her 
hand before the ring is released. Holds her hand as he speaks.) 

George — {Sharply) Anne, don't. You know I love you. How 
can you doubt it after all these years? I've grown up loving you 
and I've watched you here so long. — the net of 3'our mother's sel- 
fishness growing fighter and tighter about you day after day, until 
now even I who love you am powerless to break it. (Js he finishes 
speaking, their hands slowly draw apart, and the ring drops to the 
table.) 

Anne — {Icily) If you are finished, please go. 

George — You can't mean that. I want you so, 

—15— 



Anne — Will — you — please go? (Tensely) I never want to 
see you or hear of you again. 

George — (Slowly) That's final is it? 

Anne — (Terribly cabn) Yes. 

George — (/// quiet resolution) Then before I go I want to 
make one last plea for Bob. You may be willing to let your mother 
destroy my life and yours. Your eternal submission to your mother's 
whims will cost you a home of your own, and children. You'll 
realize it when it's all too late, Anne. But, Anne, don't let Bob 
miss his rightful place in life. 

Anne — (Furiously, ivithout turning to him) Will you go! 

George — (Gravely) I'm not pleading for my life now you 
know, nor even for yours, but for Bob's life, Anne. Don't let your 
mother ruin his life. Heaven knows she has ruined enough lives al- 
ready. (More boldly) You might just as well know the whole 
truth about your mother now. All her life she's been a taker and 
not a giver. All she ever wanted out of life was adoration, petting, 
sympathy. She's the most selfish woman I've ever known. You 
think she's affectionate because she has always craved affection. 
You think her sympathetic w^hen she prates of her sufferings. You 
consider her a saint because she says she's given her life to you. 
Other mothers have done as much for their children, and never 
considered themselves martyrs either. All her life your mother has 
exacted from you servitude that would gall a galley slave. All your 
lives you and Bob have shuffled along in convict's lock step, the 
victims of j^our mother's relentless selfishness. Anne, won't you save 
Bob? If he stays in the factory, he will lead the life of a trapped 
animal, struggling fruitlessly to the very last. 

(During this speech Anne has stood with her back to George, 
tense and tnotionless except for her hands, in which she convulsive- 
ly denudes the carnation which she has taken from her belt.) 

George — (Helplessly, after a pause) If you could only see 
the truth. (He goes slowly toward the door, left, with bowed head. 
Takes his C(^p from, ^he chair in the corner. Speaks with infinite' 
tenderness.) Good-bye, Anne — dear. 

(Exit. Js Anne realizes he is gone, she suddenly sees through 
her tears the ruined flower in her hands, so symbolic of her wrecked 
happiness. She slowly drops it and turns toivard the table as though 
in a trance.) 

Anne — (In a broken ivhisper) Mother — I-r-couldn't let him — 
say — such — things — of — you. Help me — mother. (Goes sobbing 
to her mother's chair and sinks into it, crying bitterly. Enter 
Robert.) 

Robert — (Going quickly to her and taking her in his arms) 
What is it, Anne? — Mother's better, dear. 

— 16— 



Anne — {Sobbing) Oh, Bob, I've just sent George away. He 
said the most terrible, untrue things of mother. 

Robert — {Incredulously) George did that? I wouldn't have 
believed it. 

Anne — Oh, it was terrible, and 1 never could leave mother 
when her heart is so bad. ' 

Robert — No; I'm, not going to leave her either. 

Anne — Oh Bob. I'm half glad, but 1 know you've wanted to 
go terribly. 

Robert — {Tensely) God, Anne, how can I give it up? Paris 
— Vignon — two years. I know I can play. I know I can play, 
Anne. Anne! {He sits at table and buries his head in his ar?ns.) 

Anne — {Goes to him; strokes his head tenderly) Dear boy, 
I know how you feel, I used to feel that way too, as though I 
couldn't always put him second to mother; but I see now it was 
best. Our duty is to mother first of all, especially when she is so 
poorly. She's done so much for us, Bob. {Caresses him. He raises 
his head.) 

Robert — {Resolutely) Of course, Anne; just for the moment 
selfishness got the best of me. If she wants me I must stay. I'll never 
make her unhappy intentionally. 

Anne — I know you won't, dear. You can keep on with your 
music and perhaps some day — {lamely) who — knows — 

Robert — {Sloivly, and without conviction) Yes; who knows — 

Anne — I know we'll never regret having done our duty. And 
one never knows when death — 

Robert — Don't think of that ! 

Anne — {Helplessly) Bob, what would we do if she should die? 

Robert — {Reassuringly) Never mind, Sis. We'll take the 
best possible care of her. 

Anne — And you'll work hard in the factory, won't you, to please 
mother? 

Robert — Yes. — {Almost breaking) But how I hate it. Grind 
— grind — grind — forever and ever. 

{Enter Mother, center back. An'NE hastens toivard her.) Are 
you better, dear? Come sit down here. You gave us such a scare. 
{Places chair for her.) 

Robert — You must get well soon, mother. I'm going to work 
so hard at the factory that you'll soon be riding around in a lim- 
ousine. 

Mother — Where is George? 

Anne — {With difficulty) He left quite a few minutes ago. 
Mother — you — were — right about him. {Restraining her tears) He's 
not coming back. 

Mother — I'm glad you see now that I was right. And I'm 
gratified to think you are going to be sensible. Bob, and stay at the 

—17— 



factory. It's all for your good. You'll both thank me some day 
for what I've done. 1 didn't want >()u both to take steps that 
you would eventually regret. 1 would do anything to save you 
from pain and suffering. 

Anne — We know that, dear. 

Mother — 1 haven't been so well lately, but I hope I'll be able 
to hang on a little longer for the sake of you children. — Anne, you 
had better fix supper now. — Robert, bring my shawl from my room. 
(Anne goes to the cupboard. Robert stands preoccupied near the 
table. He has not heard his mother speak. We do not know what 
he sees. Perhaps Anne does as she turns and looks at him. The 
Mother speaks again, just a shade sharper.) Robert, my shawl. 

Robert — {Startled from his reflections) Yes, mother. {Starts 
to do her bidding.) 

Curtain. 

Note. The keynote of this play is blind affection. The char- 
acter of Mrs. Bkntley //lust not be made shrewish or dominantly 
hateful. Such an interpretation will make the situation more foolish 
than tragic. 



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